


Seduction of minors

by Berjemit



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Angst, Everyone is constantly suffering, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, M/M, Out of Character, Suffering Amon, and depressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8219657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berjemit/pseuds/Berjemit
Summary: Tokyo is a huge garbage hole. 
And if you are ghoul, nothing changes. Infernal shit happens around, if you are nineteen and you are Kaneki Ken. When all human left in you is just a lighter and gay humor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Совращение малолетних](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/233009) by Murakaru. 



> The author is tired and the translator is well heh... is awfully sorry, to be honest.  
> I brought you a piece of Russian fandom. The fic is really outstanding (just believe me). I'm so afraid I've spoiled it.  
> English isn't my native tongue, so please, inform me if there are any mistakes.  
> I'm really sorry.

  


Tokyo is a huge garbage hole. 

And if you are ghoul, nothing changes. Shit happens around, if you are nineteen and you are Kaneki Ken. When all human left in you is just a lighter and gay humor. When you can’t look at the mirror because there is a hoary asshole fleering at you with anguish of a beaten dog in the eyes. This is a look “why me?” This is a look “I just want not to wake up one morning.” This is a look “why has tragedy chosen me? For what?” But to be honest, no one has chosen you. It isn’t doom, it isn’t destiny, no one throws a monkey wrench into, just fucking live with it - bad things happen and it’s nobody’s fault. Yes, yes, it isn’t fair, but that's before you bought your shovel, the universe doesn’t need any tips to create your life. Kaneki understands it perfectly, but it doesn’t get him anywhere. It doesn’t get easier. Even with coffee – it doesn’t. At nineteen one need to cry on their friend’s shoulder or to call a friendess to complain about obnoxious boyfriend. At nineteen it’s simply ridiculous to be so crippled and strong.

But Kaneki is really nineteen years old, when Amon Koutarou drinks with him in the same bar. They don’t try to kill each other because the room is too small and there’re shards of broken glass everywhere. Of course, Ken doesn’t drink. He just seats behind a dirty table, crunches the bones in his fingers with an arrogant expression on his face. Amon has sort of personal tragedy hidden in a pocket of his gray coat – some girl has turned him down or something like this. He says, “One day, kiddo, you will obviously become a murder.” Kaneki shrugs, because Koutarou is late, however, as always. Night turns into morning and the bar – into ghoul investigator’s crappy flat. Amon whispers, “Seduction of minors”, and then Ken rolls his eyes, “No, it’s fucking _not_.” 

That’s when it all begins, oh, no, it doesn’t.

It does begin after half a year has passed, when the bar is ruined and Kaneki is almost twenty. He asks what's the name of that girl because of which you get drunk. And he clings by his fingers to narrow tie that is more like a sink leash. At that moment Koutarou hates himself, and after few months he still hates himself. Akira Mado doesn’t belong to him and Kaneki Ken is fucking goddamned curse. Personal circumstantial not-love. And of course, _not his_ too. Kaneki Ken indulgently throws Amon in this everyday insipidity: a cold bed, scratches on his back and guilt towards the whole fucking world.

Sometimes on Tuesdays Akira flirts with him on the brink of suicider’s despair and Koutarou is so faintheartedly glad that he has chosen Kaneki Ken. Because with Kaneki Ken it’s needless to bill and coo, it’s needless to talk about feelings. You can be driven and weak when the rest of the world consists of icy and powerful people. You can permit yourself to relax and put a dog collar on your neck (because, to be honest, he is a big dullish dog). Kaneki forgives cruelty and lies easily, because he presents it as something normal. He squeezes his convictions in your throat in the “take that. gut it” way and you have to be a good boy and thank him for this. Otherwise, you won’t have sex in a week and don’t stutter about a blow-job you stupid asshole. 

They are some kind of friends with benefits, nowadays it’s quite the thing. Except that they are not by a damn sight friends. Fellows don’t sleep together. Enemies don’t fuck. Strangers don’t leave behind an unpleasant bitter aftertaste of impending doom. Relationships are something complicated. Relationships are something about human – it’s what Kaneki says and thinks. I’m not a human, not fully – it’s what Kaneki says and thinks. 

He also thinks that Amon has kind of shitty philosophy about killings and violence because it doesn’t account for the Saturday’s sales, prices fall and many other things. Such as ghoul restaurant, from which stinky filth oozes toward Tokyo streets, or a freaking investigator who tried to tear two children to pieces. All these are holes in the matrix, blind spots in Koutarou’s theory. Love your neighbour and blah-blah-blah, _at least Jesus tried_.

Kaneki even feels a little sorry for him (look who is talking, huh?). Amon’s world is black and white. Trashy optics, untranslatable subtitles. Good and bad is never crossed; everything is very parallel and simple. Kaneki wonders if this really could be possible to stay such an unambiguous twenty six year old man during this work. To save any sensitivity of the nervous system. Not to fall in emotional coma. Kaneki has nothing “simple”. Kaneki is solid poured “complicated”. Heavy, rough and black-hearted. But perhaps there is something in it and opposites attract. A voluntary-compulsory concentration camp. 

(or how is this written in women’s glossy magazines?) 

All that Kaneki says is the truth, the absolute and undeniable truth. Well, okay, maybe except those Kaneki’s screams when Amon fucks him ( _“bastard, I’ll kill you”_ , for example. _“fuck, your dick is the best thing ever happened to me”_ , for example. _“god, yes”_ , for example). Because this doesn’t really sound like truth. But Koutarou thinks that even gods (or kings) have a right to make mistakes and flatter, especially if they are in the knee-elbow position or with huge butt plug in their asses. The bed squeaks under them so loudly that it’s almost deafening. Actually, Kaneki Ken as a God is fair to middling. 

Koutarou goes into the shower, ripping linoleum from the bedroom to the bathroom up by his stony stare.

Ken finds it funny. He feels tired and something that has no name aches. There’s a portrait of Mado Akira above Amon’s bed and Kaneki looks at her crystalline and faded eyes curiously. Pretty, but not too much. She doesn’t seem like steel lady, no matter how hard she tries (“but she tries,” Kaneki laughs dryly, “God, this girl tries so hard.”) Kaneki screw his right eye up by force of habit and knocks by fingers on the glass under which eternal and timeless Amon Koutarou’s love is. Kaneki smiles: he loves you, cutie pie, but regardless of this, he sleeps with me. But regardless of this, he runs on a sink leash for me, not for you. _No-good, huh?_

The result isn’t even a mockery – just an indifferent statement of fact. The portrait is similar to photo of late wife that is kept in the wallet: too personal, you won’t speak aloud about this, moreover, it’s better not to look at it at all. Ken packs his things and leads out of the flat. Dirty porch stinks out of piss and beer. Amon Koutarou needs a convive or a dog. Or maybe a therapist. Amon Koutarou is completely up a creek. 

And when he called at night of Tuesday to Friday, for a moment it seems to Kaneki that tired and cracked voice is heard from the ground. Or from the fucking other world. The absolutely dead and hollow voice, full of mush and short pauses so much, that all the words are like Arabic ligature, quite gibberish, slithering across his cheek in his collar. And Kaneki rubs his sweaty neck with annoyance. He says, “Amon-san, please, be silent,” because in this case only a psychologist can help. A psychologist, a bottle of the cheapest port wine and friendly and trustful atmosphere, like if you persuade a suicide man not to wash pentobarbital down with vodka. Kaneki has only port wine and he doesn’t know what to do if twenty-six ghoul inspector whimpers inaudibly in handset at 3 A.M. He doesn’t want to listen to anybody, neither to solve anybody’s problems nor to be a good understanding guy (he would never become a good understanding guy). All he wants is to burrow his face into a pillow and hold his breath for ten minutes. He doesn’t know if it kills ghouls. Anyway it’s always possible to check if it evokes his interest so much. 

Amon just says-says-says, and it seems like if he won’t notice if Ken puts the phone down. Kaneki would even check it but he isn’t such a scum. If you become a hero, it’s only your fault. If you have saved somebody, there is no help for it. If you’re a substitution for a smiling college, well, it serves your right. 

They were always asked at school, “Where do you see yourself in the future?” and Kaneki (after all, he was a good boy; after all, he was the future of his country) answered abstractedly and optimistically, “I’ll be a man of worth, whom teachers will be able to be proud of.” Some time ago he even believed his own words. But even at that time some putrefying part of his subconscious wondered what would happen if he answered something like “In future I see myself as an alcoholic.”

In future I see myself as a damned ghoul.  
In future I see myself as a damned fagot.  
In future I don’t see myself. 

Kaneki is sorry for not being an alcoholic. All that came off is being so-so-god. All that came off is nothing the teachers could be proud of. Koutarou coughs brokenly in the handset and Ken jerks his head up reflexively, hitting his head on a rim of his bed. He sniffles as there is something unpleasant in his nose, and dark-red beads trace bloody strips on his chin. Blood drips on his T-shirt and Kaneki licks it with his tongue. It has a bitter taste. He says, “I have to go to work tomorrow.” 

“You don’t work anywhere.”

And Ken has to agree with him, because, well, okay, you caught me out. Because he has to be someone’s mom till the morning. Because they are talking about _Akira Mado_. That's it. 

They talk about Akira on Fridays. More truly, Koutarou talks – of course, he. Because Kaneki doesn’t give a damn about the-girl-with-braided-hair. There is such tenderness in Amon’s voice that the question “well, why hasn’t she put out for you yet, if that is so” seems impolite. 

They talk about Akira on Fridays and never ever again about her. 

Tokyo is a huge garbage hole.

And if you are ghoul, nothing changes. Infernal fucking shit happens around, if you are nineteen and you are Kaneki Ken. When all human left in you is just a lighter and gay humor. When you can’t even drink.

On the next Wednesday, when they are in the ghoul investigator’s bedraggled flat, the portrait above the bed is faced to the wall. That’s why Kaneki simply can’t concentrate well. Orgasm is week and somehow blurred. Koutarou goes into the shower, ripping linoleum from the bedroom to the bathroom up by his stony stare. Ken whispers him back “fuck you,” dresses himself and carefully overturns the portrait. 

Kaneki looks at her crystalline and faded eyes. He looks and smiles, “Hey, you know, one day I’ll kill him. One way or another. And you’ll feel the pain. It’s more likely than not, you will.”

_not-good, huh?_


End file.
